


Object of Obsession

by lunarjasmine



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Like soft non-con, Maybe a little reader/Dwight if you squint, Michael Myers is not nice, Reader-Insert, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 20:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17535443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarjasmine/pseuds/lunarjasmine
Summary: Reader is The Shape's obsession for one match.





	Object of Obsession

Haddonfield, Illinois is always on the cusp of winter. At least, this pale imitation of it is. The sky somewhere between iron grey and slate; the leaves that litter the dingy sidewalks and decaying lawns shriveling inward on themselves, their brilliance fading fast. Always a bite in the air, sharp enough to make you wish for hoodies and hot cocoa.

 

A soprano wail slices through the stillness, reminding you that hoodies and hot cocoa aren't going to be forthcoming anytime soon. Steeling your nerves, you creep towards the sound of the scream. You'd seen Claudette fall earlier, now only Laurie or Dwight left to be caught. It was a high pitch, to be sure, but you couldn't rule Dwight out- a hook through the shoulder has a way of pushing your voice up a few octaves.

 

Blonde hair waves like a flag in the chill breeze. Looks like Laurie didn't manage to escape from the Shape this time, and with her loss, the odds of your successful escape dwindle even further. He stands in front of her, knife dripping rubies and clutched lightly in one massive fist. You can't see his face, obscured as it is by the white mask, and you can't help but try to tie an emotion to his unreadable stance. Is it triumph? Satisfaction at finally hunting down the prey he'd sought for so long? Regret, like the kind you've seen in the Wraith’s eyes a time or two? A distant, contemptuous pity? Or is it simply… Nothing? Laurie was convinced it has to be the latter, that the Shape doesn't- _can't-_ feel. You have a hard time wrapping your mind around that. You, who feel too much.

 

Swallowing the despair that rises in your throat like bile, you creep back the way you came before the spell is broken and the killer goes on the hunt again. A tearing sound from behind you, black spider legs ripping their way through the very fabric of reality and you don't let yourself look as Laurie is consumed. Her last choked sob hangs in the air for a long time.

 

Your fingers slip on the generator you are repairing and you narrowly avoid a backfire by grabbing the offending piston. Not that it matters because faintly your ears catch another scream, something that might be ‘ _please no_ ’ and you know you are alone in Haddonfield.

 

Well, not completely. There is still a killer on the hunt and an entity watching, and three more generators to be repaired before the doors would open. You doubt you could finish three generators before the Shape caught you. One, maybe.

 

Standing on unsteady feet, you survey the surrounding area, straining for a glimpse of a hatch rising from the foggy, weed-choked ground. You can't yet hear the Shape’s heartbeat thundering in your ears, only your own, but it would come in time. A heartbeat, a glaring red light and then- your fingers find your shoulder, absently massaging the flesh there as you force the thought out of your mind.

 

If it was another killer, you might have wanted to just get it over with. A quick stab, an eternity of blackness, forgotten as soon as it ceased, and then the warm glow of the campfire. It wouldn't be painless, but it could be swift. But with this one, the Shape, you hesitate.

 

You hesitate too long.

 

The pulse doesn't swell; it is around you all at once, red light bleeding between your fingers and filtering through your hair and rational thought flees as your feet fly of their own accord, too slow. Your first idea is that the killer has punched you, hard, in the rough center of your back. You stumble, fall, the ground cold and grass tickling your nose. One of the Shape’s work boots, as massive as the rest of him plants itself scant inches in front of your face as he bends over. Something grinds in your chest and he braces himself, palm flat on your back, and there's the pain and blood, pouring out of you in a torrent as he wrenches his knife free from your flesh.

 

His breathing doesn't change, slow and steady. He could be pulling a carving fork out of a roast. He heaves you onto his shoulder as though you weigh nothing. Perhaps to him you don't. You wiggle a little, but his powerful arm clamps around your legs, holding you in place. His blue overalls are steadily soaking purple with your blood and your chest burns with each breath. When he lifts you into the air and you feel the insistent nudge of the hook pressing into your back, the scant moment before your weight drops and you're left to dangle, you close your eyes and hope you can rest before the next trial.

 

\---

 

“Was the end really rough?” The voice is familiar and when you open your eyes again, the name is on the tip of your tongue. Always difficult to reclaim your memories after being sacrificed, as though you have to forcibly yank them back from the black void. Laurie.

 

“It was quick. He didn't mori me or anything. At least there's that.” Your mouth tastes like copper, your tongue thick. Claudette pushes a cup of water into your hands and you drain it in a swallow. The fire pops when you straighten up and everyone flinches.

 

“Thought it might have been a bad one.” Feng murmurs. Her arms are wrapped around her knees and she shivers a little, though the fire is roaring. “You were gone a long time. A second match started.”

 

“Who got taken for that one?”

 

“Jake. Nea. Quentin. Ace.” Laurie frowns. “I couldn't watch. It was the Nurse and- I couldn't watch. It won't be long now.”

 

A second match. The words bring a sinking feeling to your stomach. The Entity usually gives everyone at least one match to recover after they've been sacrificed. Sometimes two, but it was rare. After the four other survivors finished one way or the other, you could be up again. A stab of pain lances through your chest, and for a scant moment you feel the ghost of the Shape’s hand on your back, feel cold metal grinding against your ribs. Though you wouldn't want any of the other survivors to take your place, you can't help but offer a prayer to be left out of the next match. _Not like the Entity listens to our prayers_.

 

But it did. Soon after the end (all survivors looking downcast and nursing quickly fading wounds), four more are tugged into the ether, and you are spared, though curiosity has you walking into the edge of the dark forest that rings the fire. You can't enter the trial, of course, but as you draw closer, the Entity lets you see.

 

Dwight rests a hand on your shoulder, leaning in close to you. “Did you know the killers come to watch too?” Your blood turns to ice, late November rivers. “Relax.” He reassures you, reading it in your face. “They can't hurt us when we're not in there. They just come to watch. Like we do.” He gestures with his head, less subtle than he intends, and when you follow with your eyes, the Trapper is staring back at you.

 

His mask gives him a permanent rictus grin, but you get the feeling that underneath it, he's still smiling. You don't look close enough to confirm, shuddering and turning your attention back to the cat and mouse game in front of you. The Trapper’s chuckle is soft and unkind, and Dwight’s hand tightens.

 

Red fabric fluttering through the trees- the Pig. A killer you had yet to face, though you've heard of her cruel reverse bear traps and skill in hiding. She is small and slight looking but just as you begin to underestimate her, she springs forward with a roar and the survivor in front of her, Ace again, as unlucky as you are fortunate, is not quick enough to dodge. Her knife slices through flesh with an uncomfortably meaty sound; it makes you flinch and you stumble hard into someone standing behind you. “Sorry, Dwi-” Your voice falters in your throat. Not Dwight.

 

The Shape stands close enough for you to hear his breathing, close enough for you to see the rise and fall of his chest. His head cocks ever so slightly to the side as he studies you, leaning in, looming close enough to pin you against the barrier that blocks off the trial.

 

With the Huntress you can see the bottom half of her face, see her frown or smile. Occasionally you might catch a glimpse of her eyes, if you shine the flashlight and catch her just right. Her lashes are long and dark and really quite pretty. With the Trapper, you can see the ghost of his features through the gaps in his mask. With the Legion, depending on who it is, you can occasionally see their jaw line, the bob of the Adam's apple as one of them swallows. One of the Legion has braces; you can sometimes catch a glimpse of her smile, her pink hair through her mask. With the Shape, there's nothing human for you to focus on.

 

A bell tolls uncomfortably close to your ear and the Wraith materializes next to you. His eyes are frostfire and unreadable as he looks you over, but his actions tell the story his face does not as he places a hand flat on the Shape's chest. The other man refuses to move and the Wraith tolls his bell again. They stand that way, a silent battle of wills until, with one last inscrutable look at you, the Shape turns and stalks off into the fog.

 

“Thank you.” Your voice is small, it cracks and catches, unused to venting anything but screams around any of the killers. The Wraith nods, rings his bell, evaporates.

 

You can't watch the rest of the trial, your heart hammering in your throat and making your mouth taste like salt. Dwight has disappeared, probably had as soon as both killers had shown up and you start the trek back alone although Laurie catches up with you.

 

“I hate that creepy fuck.” Her voice is bitter. “I hate that he's followed me to god knows where. I hate that I'm living a life where I get killed by him again and again. If I'd just let him do it the first time maybe I'd have been better off.”

 

“That's right, you knew him.” You realize. Most of the survivors are random people like you, who have no connection to any of the killers, but a few seem linked to the killers in some way. You'd spoken to another one, Quentin, before. He'd told you about ‘his’ killer, the Nightmare. You'd never seen him either. “What's his deal? Can he even talk?”

 

“He's a loon.” She scowls blackly at the ground. “His name is Michael Myers. He stabbed his sister to death when he was just a little kid and they put him away in an asylum. When he was all grown up, he broke out and came back.” Laurie takes a moment to look you over. “He's all about obsession. He was obsessed with his sister. First thing he did was destroy her tombstone. He's obsessed with me. His shrink said it's because he thinks I'm his sister too. I dunno why he would be obsessed with you but… I'm sorry.”

 

You've never been a killer obsession before. You know that each killer has the potential to have one in each match. Some killers like to play with their obsession; some like to pursue them single-mindedly. You've seen the Shape do both, depending on his strange whims and perhaps what the Entity wants.

 

When the fog lifts and the next match starts, there is a chill along your spine and a lingering darkness around your peripheral vision that won't clear, and sympathy in Laurie's gaze.

 

“Your first time, right?” Meg whispers. “Being the Obsession?”

 

“First time for everything.” You survey the rickety shack you've all started in. Two lockers, a generator, Meg, Claudette, Laurie. “At least we're all together.”

 

Meg hums in agreement, pulling out a toolkit. “We can get this gen done in no time.”

 

You each kneel on the ragged floor, mindful of any splinters that might pierce your flesh; the Entity has seen fit to change your outfit, putting you in a skirt this time around and you don't relish the thought of leaving a blood trail this early. The hum of the generator replaces all conversation, all ears tuned for the swell of a heartbeat.

 

Claudette is the first to voice what you all are thinking. “Who do you think the killer is this time?”

 

“I hope it's not the Nurse.” Meg whispers and Laurie agrees.

 

“She teleports.” The blonde shudders at the memory. “It's almost impossible to get away.”

 

“I've never seen her.” Claudette tells the group. “I think I'm most afraid of the Nightmare. He is invisible and can't hurt you unless you're sleeping. Sounds like he would be easy to avoid, no? But he can make you fall asleep and once you are he can track you anywhere.”

 

You haven't met either of those. Before you can add your contribution, a shiver darts down your spine and you involuntarily straighten up. “They're here. Now.”

 

Laurie whispers your name, beckoning you back down. “We'd hear the heartbeat. It's just your nerves.”

 

Unconvinced, you turn to glance behind you and feel your veins turn to ice. You manage to choke out. “Shape-” before the man is fully inside the shack, one massive hand wrapping around your throat and hoisting you into the air as though you weigh as much as a kitten.

 

Your nails scrabble fruitlessly on the rough fabric of his jumpsuit, unable to get any purchase as he pulls you towards his face. Again the thoughtful examination and even though your lungs are starved for air you can't help but wonder what he's looking for when he surveys you that way.

 

A beam of light illuminates the shack; it's Claudette, shining a flashlight directly into the Shape's face in an effort to force him to release you.

 

His eyes are blue; shockingly so, the blue of an autumn afternoon sky. They narrow as his attention is forcibly pulled away and he dumps you onto the floor with an irritated growl.

 

Your throat burns and your chest aches as you roll to your knees and force yourself upright, slivers of rotting wood embedding themselves in your palms. He hits Claudette hard and she collapses onto the floor as well and you expect him to hoist her onto his shoulder but instead he lifts her into the air like he did you; pulls his knife and plunges it into her chest and then into her belly.

 

A mori. You've never seen one so close up before. Truly a night of firsts. While he casually examines the blood on his knife, you slip out of the back entrance and run as far as your legs will take you, hiding in a clump of tall grass.

 

He's out soon after, staring at the ground where you passed and then lifting his head to look in your direction. For an instant it feels as though you make eye contact and you press your knees together to keep them from shaking, but he doesn't pursue, instead striding off in another direction. You breathe easier, watching him go until the fog swallows him up.

 

There isn't much time for you to finish the generator you abandoned, and the sparks flying from it tell you that the Shape has given it at least a few good kicks, but you make your best attempt. The damage isn't too bad yet. You try your hardest not to look at Claudette’s corpse, try your best to convince yourself that the copper-iron-salt stench that fills the shack is your imagination.

 

The roar of a completed generator always gives you a mix of feelings. Pride, joy, hope all bundled in with fear and trepidation. Almost simultaneously you hear another gen finish somewhere in the forest to your left and a small, uncharitable part of you is relieved; hopes that it will distract the Shape long enough for you to get away.

 

As it turns out, it does. It distracts him better than you'd hoped, as in a frighteningly short time you hear the telltale sound of the Entity, its legs forcing their way through reality again to grab someone. You catch the faintest glimpse of the limp body being hauled into the sky but it's too far and fading too fast for you to make out any features. Pausing in your endeavor to pull the splinters from your hands, you creep away from the shack. You haven't gone far when another scream bursts from the trees and you break into a shambling run to the source, trying to cover ground while also staying low but you are too late.

 

He doesn't sacrifice Laurie this time, discarding her tormented corpse the same way he tossed aside Claudette, and you are alone again. Worse; you close your eyes, covering your mouth and swallowing hard to keep the gorge from rising in your throat, and when you open them again, the Shape is gone.

 

Having a spider in your bedroom is bad; seeing a spider and then having it disappear is worse, fraught with the curse of possibilities. This is like that, only if the house spider was deadly; a black widow or a brown recluse.

 

You sneak back into the brush from whence you came and strong arms haul you into the air again. He had to have been standing behind you, motionless and silent, and how you hadn't noticed, you have no idea. Not that it matters now.

 

There's a small handprint on his shoulder, rusty brown and shapely. It fits your hand almost perfectly; a souvenir from the last time you found yourself on his shoulder. You wiggle experimentally and his arm tightens in the familiar vise grip but relaxes when you fall still.

 

The Shape is walking quite a distance, passing several hooks while he takes you to who knows where and you can't stop the bitter words from bubbling up in your throat: “Next time you're going to haul me across the continental US, the least you can do is carry me bridal style. You're making me dizzy.”

 

He doesn't respond, not that you expected him to. His arm shifts, tightens again but before you complain further he ducks into another decrepit cabin, stooping under the sagging door frame. His feet stutter and you realize two things: he tightened his grip on you to keep you from slipping off his shoulder and tumbling down a flight of stairs, and he's taking you to the basement.

 

Panic bubbles in your throat and when he takes you off of his shoulder, you try to bolt. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you effortlessly for a moment while you calm. Feet on floor. No metal in your shoulder. His grip is firm, but not cruel, and his hold relaxes as you do. When you turn towards him, it loosens completely, allowing you to spin in his hands, peer up at him curiously.

 

His breathing is loud, amplified by the mask and the close quarters. One hand leaves your hip and travels to your face, fingers tentative as they touch your chin, your cheek, the tip of your nose, brush over the plush swell of your lips. He seems to enjoy doing the last; his thumb lingers a moment longer there before trailing away to pull at your ponytail. You follow his unspoken request and take down your ponytail, releasing your flood of hair. His breath catches; his hand buries itself in your hair and pulls you close, your scalp stinging. When he sees you wince, his hold relaxes, though he doesn't let his fistful of your locks go, drawing you into his space, forcing you to crane your neck all the way back- gods, he's tall- to look at his ‘face’. The other hand rubs small circles into your hip for a moment, slides up, palms your breast. You lean back in an effort to create space but your back meets the wooden wall of the basement and he presses into you, unwilling to give even an inch. There's no Wraith here to warn him off; there's only you and him and the watchful eyes of the Entity.

 

The Shape is panting now, caging you in with his body, shoving your legs apart with his knee to stand between them. There's no _room_ , you end up resting your hands against his chest; it's either that or around him in an embrace and you're not planning on hugging the man who is going to kill you.

 

He's _massive_ , something that you've always known but never really registered until you found yourself pressed up against him. A foot and a half taller than you at least and solid, all muscle. Something else is massive too; as he strokes your hair and feels your body, a growing pressure nudges against your abdomen until he growls and hikes you up, one forearm slipping under your skirt to support your bottom and his other hand finally leaving your hair to run his thumb along your throat. His body is thick, forcing your thighs apart more than is comfortable while he ruts against you. The layers of fabric separating his cock from your heat feel insubstantial at best; you can feel the rough texture of his work jumpsuit through your panties, catching against your clit every time he rocks his hips into you and your body, touch starved traitor that it is, starts to respond to his rough caress. Your panties cling to you with your own slick and it seems to excite him.

 

He takes a step back from the wall, forcing you to throw your arms around his neck to save yourself from tumbling backwards as he moves you. You're expecting the hard floor against your back when he puts you down but instead you're laying on something surprisingly soft and comfortable. The Shape steps back and when he's out of your line of sight you notice that the hooks are gone. The Entity has clearly done some interior redecorating while you were otherwise occupied.

 

Rustling fabric catches your attention and when the Shape returns, his jumpsuit is gone and he's bare before you save for his ever present mask.

 

He studies you for a long moment before he sets the last aside and kneels over you. It's so dark, you can't see any part of his face save for the red glow from his eyes, but you find yourself touching his face to learn his features anyway and he doesn't stop you. He's clean shaven, smooth under your hands, with a straight, narrow nose. His hair is long and feels perhaps loosely wavy; it brushes your wrists and arms until he clears it away with a flick of his head. Your fingers brush his lips and he grabs your wrist, licking a stripe along your palm before pinning you down.

 

Playtime over, it seems. He's between your thighs again, pushing up your skirt to grind his hard cock against you for an instant before grabbing your panties. Cold steel brushes against you and the fabric is suddenly gone and the head of his cock nudges against your slick lips. He's not gentle, but he is deliberate, and his entrance is slow; letting you feel every moment as his head spreads your lips, the resistance before your body gives way under him, inch after inch of his erection sinking into you.

 

Where before the air was chilled against your exposed skin, now it is hot, close, sticky with your body heat and his. Powerful hands pin your wrists to the fabric beneath you and a growl vibrates through his chest as the Shape tests his teeth against your collarbone. The weight of him drives him into you; he's deep, filling you to capacity. Still, he doesn't speed up; the Shape doesn't do anything fast, it seems. It's almost relaxing, allowing your body to go limp under his, your thighs spread wide to accommodate him, his hips rocking into yours with a steady, unhurried rhythm. You arch into him, half-unconsciously, urging him on and he obliges, loosing your hands to wrap one arm around the small of your back, supporting you. His other hand dives deep into your hair, yanks your head back sharply enough to ache but you're distracted from that pain by the press of his mouth against your throat as he bites and sucks bruises into your neck. That hurts too, but it's a good pain and your hand tangles in his hair as you press him close.

 

This isn't what you were expecting when he brought you down into the basement but it's altogether more pleasant than the more likely alternatives; you don't resist when he covers your lips with his and he pushes his tongue into your mouth. He kisses the way he fucks; slow, intense and with more skill than you'd expect he'd possess. While you ponder that thought his cock brushes against a spot inside of you that makes your whole body tremble and he follows that reaction; pursues it. The whimpers that spill unbidden from your throat are a trail of blood and he drives you towards a different kind of death. Your fingers skid on his sweat slick back; when you whisper his name the room is abruptly awash in a hemic glow; his eyes finding yours. You let one hand trail along the nape of his neck and he takes his cue and lowers his mouth to yours again, kissing you for a bare instant before he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, biting down until you taste iron. His pulse pounds in your ears in time with your own and he finally does speed up the motion of his hips, enticing you towards your own zenith. His grip on you is tight, fingertips sinking into your soft flesh but there is lightning running down your spine and fire through your veins and you can't bring yourself to care about anything but the sweet friction between your legs.

 

You are unsure whether his orgasm pushes you over the edge or yours does him; either way you gasp into his mouth, your nails digging into his hips, clutching him close with every part of you and he doesn't growl or snarl but instead _purrs_ , the sound of his contentment rumbling through you as he pulses inside of you, burning and slick.

 

Metal grates against stone and when you come back to yourself, you can dimly see the crimson glow from the Shape’s eyes running along the edge of his knife like blood. He examines it from every angle before turning his gaze back to you. There's a whispering in the air, soft words with too many consonant sounds that you can just barely hear. His other hand passes along your throat again, thumb pressing along your jugular.

 

“Michael-” Your voice quavers and catches.

 

“Shh.” His hand presses down harder as he shushes you, grip tightening on the handle of his knife. He catches you in another kiss, this one tender and sweet and as you relax into him, he drives the knife through your sternum and everything fades to black, headlights in the rear view mirror of a car disappearing into the night.


End file.
